


Dear Sunday,

by junoed



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 19:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12637566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junoed/pseuds/junoed
Summary: In the deep, dark, browns of her eyes, he sees his future. A time lapse of aging youth with a backdrop of the sun. He can faintly hear the toll of wedding bells and then the pitter-patter of tiny feet, the breeze in the air, the creak-creaking of a rocking chair. Piano keys and lullabies. Sweet nothings. Sweet everythings.Sitting on scraped knees, hand outstretched with a manuscript in her palm, loose hair a framed halo around her soft face, she looks at him. And he looks at her. And they look, and they look, and they look, but they don't say a thing.Zen feels like he is coming undone at the seams. One by one, each stitch frays and unravels."You're the one I've been waiting for."He finds himself falling to his knees, reverent. Holiness on his tongue, swollen with the ache of Things, he whispers with such a heavy blessedness:"The girl of my dreams."





	Dear Sunday,

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh i got back into playing mystic messenger and missed Zen gvsdcahdcbka
> 
> this is only the prologue so!! pls lemme know if yall have a preference for first or second person cos i still havent decided wtf to write it in lmao
> 
> i dont own mysme aaiiight

     The first night he dreamt about her, he had been asleep in his bed.  
  


    Her perfume was not quite a perfume-- what was it exactly? It had been a combination of ground coffee beans and an underlying hot cinnamon, somewhere along with decorated bits of coconut. They would rock with one another, one scent after the other, then sporadically clash and overload the senses at the exact same time. Dizzying, these flurries of aromas-- **addicting** . This, _perfume_ , this perfume that was _not quite_ a perfume, that emanated from her neck, her hands, the fabric of her clothes, her hair.  
  


     _Her hair_.  
  


    Thick and dark. A lion’s mane. Mane of loose, springy curls. Shining and vibrant. Smudged with ground coffee beans, the underlying hot cinnamon, the decorated bits of coconut, each strand coated in that _goodness_.  
  


     _Her hair and her perfume._  
  


    The back of her head was already so complex. That was all he had seen, was the back of her head. He reached out to touch the ends of her hair with his fingers. He **had** to touch.  
  


    _And then he woke up with an aching head and in a cold sweat._  
  


    The second night he dreamt about her, Zen had been asleep on his couch.  
  


    It was the back of her head again with the same dark lion’s mane and the same not-quite perfume, however now she had a body. A body draped in warm fabrics. She was small. Small in that big, green jacket and big, orange scarf and big, red galoshes. She was taking them off, bottom first and working her way to the top.  
  


     _Her hair and her perfume and her body._  
  


    Zen woke up in a daze and with an even more painful headache than the first night. He would rate it a four on the pain scale.  
  


    The third night he dreamt about her, she was in the middle of looking over her shoulder and he had caught only a glimpse of the bottom half of her face.  
  


    He saw her chin first. Then her lips.  
  


    And he felt his breath catch in his throat.  
  


    Beautiful lips with a peachy pink hue, rounded all over, small and prominent for kissable attention. Shiny with a glitter lipgloss. Sparkling. Inviting. Adorned with cheeks ablazing.  
  


  _Her hair and her perfume and her body and her mouth._  
  


    Zen wakes up mid turn-around; the pain scale tips over to a six. His pillowcase is damp.  
  


    The fourth night he dreamt about her, there is a scene. It’s her and it’s a story.  
  


    Back to him, removing the heavy excess of fabrics from a winter’s outing, she is in his living room. Most _definitely_ **his** living room. In front of the door, slightly bent over, curls bouncing with every movement no matter how slight. Zen knows she is saying something to him but he simply cannot hear-- only silence. But he _knows_ . He knows, he knows, _he_ **_knows_ ** , and he wants to respond and-- and-- he _thinks_ he does because he _senses_ her acknowledgment.  
  


    So he goes to reach over to touch her hair and he JOLTS into reality with a migraine and a wet t-shirt sticking to his chest. Heart thudding violently.  
  


     _Her hair and her perfume and her body and her mouth and here in my living room._  
  


    The fifth night he dreamt about her,  
  


    he feels _Her_.  
  


    The allure of _Her_.  
  


    How there is an itch that develops into a pain of their distance, how it quickly diminishes as he steps closer to her. He ACHES for her. Mind, body, spirit, heart-- she consumes all of him. She is _home_ and Zen already misses her because already this physical gap of only 2 measly **fucking** meters and he desires so heavily to be by her side, to touch her, to embrace her and to kiss her, and to cherish her,  
  


    And to love her.  
  


_Her hair and her perfume and her body and her mouth and here in my living room I know love her._  
  


    Zen wakes up in his bed and then, rushed to bend over cold porcelain, his insides are purged and he flushes the toilet multiple times, head raging with an agony unparallelled, sweat dripping and soaking into his pajamas, heaving some more and coughing some more, groaning, eyes shut tight-- so, so tight it _huuuurts_.  
  


    And yet, despite the utter misery of his current situation, despite the vomitting and the migraines and the stomach aches and the cramps-- deep, deep in his gut, a spark of _something_ kindles and flares.

    

     _The girl of his dreams._

_The girl of his dreams._

**Author's Note:**

> i have a thing for writin prologues bc it's like testing the waters to see if ppl are interested!! also i wrote this up rlly late at night so if it sounds like, cryptic, then cool thas kinda the point lolololol


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